Fleeting Moments
by hopelessromantic549
Summary: He's not sure what he hopes to accomplish; she literally said she never wanted to see him again, and she's not one to go back on her word. But he can't stop himself. He is and always will be desperately in love with Peyton Sawyer. LP, ten years after S4.
1. What We Never Knew We Had

**A/N: So this is my attempt to basically rewrite the end of Season 4. Some need-to-know information: Brooke and Lucas never broke up senior year, so Lucas and Peyton never got together. LP did, however, sleep together the night of graduation. Brooke never found out, but she dumped Lucas two weeks later because she was going to New York and he was staying in Tree Hill. That's about it. Also, this will be my first M-rated chapter story (due to large amounts of happy, angsty, etc. LP sex and gratuitous cursing). I apologize, but it seems necessary :)**

**This will be multi-chaptered (who knows how many chapters exactly??), and, hopefully, you'll join me for a fun-filled ride to ultimate LP goodness! Thanks for reading! Enjoy :)

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Chapter 1

What We Never Knew We Had

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_But looking back now, I feel like our lives changed because they had to.  
- The Sisterhood of The Traveling Pants _

He stands impatiently, tapping his foot, smoothing his hair, adjusting his suit. He's bored (which is rare for him; he's easily entertained). This party is supposed to be fun, energetic, but he hasn't been enjoying himself much. Even the glass of straight whiskey he's nursing hasn't satisfied him. And he can't leave just yet, because he's only been here an hour, and as a junior partner he's required to stay until eleven thirty. At the earliest.

And it's fucking nine thirty.

He wonders what the hell he's doing here. He's twenty-eight, and his life is about as messed-up as they come. He doesn't have a steady girlfriend (although he does have a few steady hook-up partners), he hates his job (he gave up his dream of being a writer around the same time _she_ broke his heart), and he's hundreds of miles away from his friends and family (the lights of New York aren't nearly as appealing up close). He doesn't want to be at this stupid party. He doesn't want any of it.

The thought is aggravating, mostly because he could be hitting up a bar tonight, looking for a beautiful woman to take home with him. If not for this…party (it doesn't deserve the name). He's not likely to find such a woman here, at this stuffy lawyer party. Which is a shame really, because he's in the mood (i.e. he's on the prowl). As always, if he's being honest.

But tonight…goddamn it. He was really looking forward to meeting some voluptuous blonde and ravishing her until daylight broke. It sounded like a foolproof way to end the evening. That is, until he remembered what stupid event he had to attend. An obligatory firm party of which the only real purpose is to negotiate contracts and mingle with holier-than-thou types.

He sighs. The only ass he's likely to tap tonight is his overly eager secretary, a petite brunette with knockers like no other. She's nice enough, and her boobs are fucking _fantastic_, but she doesn't quite sate his thirst. He's fucked her a couple times – mainly because he's sure he'll never encounter such huge boobs again – but the sex was just average. She blames it on how nervous they were about being caught – they were in the supply closet at work both times – but he knows better. She's just not his cup of tea.

Probably because he's a legs guy and he always has been, and hers are short and squat. Her boobs _almost _make up for it. Almost. But not quite.

She's been trailing him all evening, and it's obvious she'd like to ravish him in the luxe bathroom of this swanky hotel. Normally he'd oblige, if only for some spontaneity in this otherwise mundane evening. But he's just not feeling it tonight.

What he'd _really_ like to be doing right now is watching a basketball game (USC is playing Duke tonight, and he's pissed he had to Tivo the game), or something to that effect. (He doesn't like porn; he'd rather have the real thing). He can't believe he thought he'd have fun tonight. There's nothing about this sort of thing that is fun, except –

And then he sees her.

She's standing by the bar, twirling the stem of her martini glass in her long, slender fingers. She's sweeping her gaze across the room, her expression demure, her eyes devoid of emotion; she looks hopelessly innocent and pure. Her legs are crossed at the ankles, a dark red polish covering the toes that peep out from fire engine-red stilettos. A sweeping, floor-length black gown – that's really the only word for her dress – conceals the shape of her legs, but he can tell they're slim and shapely. If the rest of her is any indication.

His mouth goes dry, and he struggles to take in enough air. He feels like every inch of his skin is on fire, and suddenly, the only thing he wants to do is go right over to this mysterious woman and kiss the feigned (he knows women; it's feigned) innocence right out of her.

Because she's _hot_. And not just the kind of hot that turns him on and solidifies her status as one of the women he's most wanted to fuck over the course of his lifetime. She's the kind of beautiful – hot doesn't cut it, apparently – that makes him ache with desire and affection (but he wonders where the hell it comes from) and wonder. Above all else, wonder. Who the hell _is _she?

She has dark blonde, wavy hair that falls to the small of her back, the color exacerbating the effect of her piercing green eyes. He can only see her in profile, but he can tell that her ass is round and perky – his favorite kind, he notes with a snide smile – and her boobs are about medium-size, not too small and not too big (and he's slept with enough women to know that they're not fake). But it's her _legs_ that entrance him.

She takes a shuffling step forward, and the slit in her black goddess dress falls off her thigh a little, revealing a smooth, gold expanse of shimmering _leg_. His breath catches in his throat. He's most definitely a legs kind of guy – he loves to touch them, loves to feel them wrapped around him as a girl screams his name (like he said, he does this lot) – and it takes a lot to impress him. But this woman's legs are most definitely impressive.

Only one other woman's – well, she was just barely a woman when he knew her, but that's irrelevant – legs have ever affected him so (that is, made his vision blur and his pants uncomfortably tight). His grin falters for a moment as he remembers her. He hasn't seen her in so long. Sometimes, he still thinks about her, thinks about the one blissful night they shared (or almost shared, depending on how you look at it). He wonders what she would look like now, wonders how much she's changed and whether she even remembers him. It's been ten years, after all.

But he shakes himself free of the memories – she is his past, and he's always prided himself on living in the now – and focuses on the striking woman less than ten yards away from him.

He smoothes down his three-piece Armani suit, sweeps his hand over his dark (he had it colored after the tenth women mistook him for Leonardo DiCaprio – not that he really minded), carefully tousled (oh, there's an oxymoron) hair, and makes himself mentally ready. He wants to approach this woman and find out more about her (everything about her, if he's being honest).

So with a sigh, he fixes his most charming smile on his face and strides over to her.

--

She leans against the smooth marble of the bar, huffing a sigh. She's not having any fun. She thought that the dress she picked out – black, with a floor-length hemline and a slit up the side that isn't exactly work-appropriate – would draw attention to her and maybe snag her a few semi-attractive guys. But so far, the only men that have approached her have been sleazy, or, worse still, old. In fact, a Hugh Hefner-type came up to her and offered to buy her a drink earlier. She politely declined, wondering if he'd ever seen the inside of the Playboy mansion.

She struggles to stifle a yawn as she surveys the room wearily. She's not sure what she's even doing here. Her boss – a slick 50-something-year-old who makes eyes at her and not-so-inconspicuously looks down her shirt every chance he gets – told her that this party would be a great place to coerce some buyers into investing in the new gallery her company is trying to open. She sees the point, she really does, but the effort seems futile at best.

And utterly draining. She's only managed to convince one person – _one_ person, in two and a half hours – that he should invest. (And she's sure he only said yes because he was afraid of her). Her results are disheartening, and she's tired.

So she turns to the bartender (an obviously butch woman who Peyton wishes was male because of the leering glances she's been sending her all night) and orders another apple martini. She wants to get drunk, really drunk. Mostly to escape this god-awful situation, but also because she thinks it'd be hilarious to waltz around muttering insults she'd never dare utter while sober and trip over herself with more than one martini glass tottering precariously in her hands. These stuffy lawyer-types would never know what hit them.

She seriously considers the idea. She's bored, and what's more fun than getting piss-drunk and stirring up a party? Besides, there's no one here she wants to impress. She hasn't seen a single remotely attractive guy all night. Really, she might as well walk out of here knowing that she spiced up some perv's night (because let's face it: partners at a firm party surely aren't getting any ass at home, so they have to be looking for it somewhere). And the surest way to do that is to make a complete fool out of herself (which will probably involve bending over so her boobs are presented to their best advantage and taking exaggerated steps forward so the slit in her dress reveals epic proportions of leg).

And with that, her mind is made-up. She smiles wickedly, downing her drink in one solid swig, and prepares to have some fun.

But then she sees him.

He's standing in the center of the room, and she wonders how she missed him in her routine scans for eligible bachelors (he's so striking, she's surprised a swarm of women isn't surrounding him). His head is poised skyward, cloud-blue eyes (even now, she has the eyes of an artist; she knows exactly which colors she would use to paint that shimmering expanse) fixed on the ornate ceiling above. He's holding a glass of what she's sure is whiskey – the most suave guys always drink whiskey (Chuck Bass anyone?) – and his dark brown hair is tousled messily (and impressively, she has to admit) so it falls just so onto his forehead.

His features are strong and defined, his jaw clenching as he takes a single step forward, as if he's debating what to do. She's sure she's never seen anything sexier. (And she grew up with the sexiest pair of brothers God ever had the divine pleasure of creating).

She takes a deep breath, because even from this distance, and even though his expertly tailored Armani suit – she knows her designers – conceals the hard planes and sleek muscles of his body, she can tell she'd be even more impressed by his streamlined appearance if she got the chance to see what's underneath his clothes. (And now, of course, all she can think about is how much she wants to take off his clothes).

She wonders who he is; a lawyer maybe, or just a broker like herself who's a lackey on a mission? She has no idea, and she's morbidly curious.

She makes up her mind to approach him, because she hasn't had a _really _good fuck since the night of her high school graduation, and this mysterious man seems to fit the bill perfectly: rugged, seemingly troubled, handsome, dark. She muses that it's slightly ironic that as she's gotten older the sex has gotten _worse_, but she shakes her head vehemently. She doesn't have time to waste daydreaming about the last blonde who made her scream his name. (Truthfully, she hasn't seen him in almost a decade, and she's not sure if his hair is even still blond).

She's unable to resist the blood pooling in her groin, and she doesn't want to. This guy – who she doesn't know the name of and doesn't _want _to know the name of – is _hot_. That's really all that matters to her anymore. (She gave up on the idea of love long ago).

So she collects herself; she fluffs her hair with one practiced movement, stands up a little straighter so her boobs and her ass stick her out (she learned that trick when she was a cheerleader), and fixes a slightly amused smirk on her lips. She's almost ashamed by her primping. Almost.

And then she takes a step forward, almost in his direction but not quite. (She doesn't want it to seem like she's heading for him).

But as she swivels her hips and lets the fabric of her dress move slightly off her thigh – the movement is purposeful, and empowering – she feels his eyes on her, burning, inquisitive. She wonders why she can feel his gaze so strongly – he's a stranger, and she's never been particularly attuned to strangers' stares – but she dismisses the thought. She's happy he's noticed her. She likes being noticed by a handsome man. What sane woman wouldn't?

She takes a deep breath, preparing herself for whatever is surely about to come, and takes another, deliberate step forward. A devilish smile alights on her lips.

Now it's only a matter of time.

--

Sidling up beside the as-yet-nameless blonde, he leans against the bar, mimicking her stance, and greets casually, "Hello, beautiful." It's a cheesy line, and he's well aware that it's totally cliché. But you'd be surprised how many women it works on. At least in his experience. (Of course, the charming smile usually helps).

Not this woman, though. (She rolls her eyes inwardly). She shoots him a coy side smile in answer, flashing her pearly-white teeth (it has to be said), and comments wryly, "Only an obvious rookie like yourself would use such an outdated pick-up line." She fixes her gaze on her perfectly manicured nails and sways her hips saucily in his direction. She's teasing him, he can tell.

He likes it.

He grins for real this time, stunned and gratified by her witty response. It's not often that a beautiful woman is willing to engage in some verbal sparring with him. And she _is_ beautiful; he's sure of that now. She's tan, but not overly so (and obviously not fakely), and the blond tints in her hair brilliantly frame the eyes he realizes are hazel (but more green than brown). That doesn't surprise him too much; it seems like all the women he's ever loved had hazel eyes. She's wearing just a touch of blush and some marvelously thick mascara, which is the way he likes his women – he's always believed that the cheaply lucrative (one of the only oxymorons he's willing to accept) make-up industry takes advantage of women's insecurity.

And suddenly he thinks there's something vaguely familiar about her…but no. There's simply no way. That would be too coincidental, and too much like fate. It couldn't possibly be…

He forces himself to focus on only this mysterious – well, not-so-mysterious, if his suspicions are correct – woman, because she's obviously waiting for him to reply. He lets his smile widen and intones cheekily, "Touché."

She says nothing (he assumes she deems his response inadequate), and he smiles. He likes challenges, and he can tell she'll be a hard egg to crack (and don't worry; he doesn't miss the innuendo there). "I won't ask you your name," he murmurs, scooting closer towards her and gazing at her with more intensity than the moment deserves, considering they just met each other (technically), "Because I bet I can guess it."

"Oh, really?" Her tone is mocking, but she doesn't move away. It seems like she's intrigued by him, and he squeals inwardly (a girly response, but he never claimed he wasn't feminine). Checkmate.

"Like I haven't heard that before," she murmurs coolly, deliberately avoiding his eyes. He wonders if it's because she's afraid she might recognize him.

Truth be told, she feels slightly uneasy. This man is far more attractive than she thought – he's got piercing blue eyes and a strong profile and a smirk that should be illegal (and probably is in some states) – and she doesn't like how irresistible her body finds him. (Her brain is able to push her lust away, but she's not sure how long she can hold out). This was supposed to be a conquest, not a battle of wills.

But that's what it's becoming.

What's worse, there's something about him that is so reminiscent of the man – boy, man, whatever he was when she knew him – she made love to (it could never be just sex with him) – despite her impending departure for New York, despite his relationship with her best friend. Maybe it's the predatory gleam in those blue eyes, or maybe it's his silky voice. This mysterious man has the voice of a writer, and it sends shivers down her spine.

He might just be…but no. She won't even entertain the thought.

He smiles as she falters; he's sure now. The knowledge stuns him, but at the same time, it makes sense. She always said she wanted to live in New York, and he's never been more impressed by a pair of legs. Although really, it's her mocking tone that solidifies it for him. That voice still haunts him sometimes.

"Well, I'm sure I'll be the first one to shock you into silence," he promises, his gaze lewdly but leisurely slipping to her chest. The dress she's wearing has a strapless neckline, elegant as it dips just low enough. The fabric – glossy and smooth to the touch, if he guesses correctly – billows out just above her waist and drapes easily over her curves. It's a beautiful dress. (He's always been able to appreciate the intricacies of women's fashion).

She takes a step closer to him, finally lifting her gaze, as if daring him. He thinks he sees a flash of recognition in that iridescent green, and he holds her gaze, almost hoping he'll see a sunflower ringing her pupil. The woman before him looks nothing like the girl – girl, woman, whatever she was – he remembers, and it's slightly frightening. He can't believe she's changed so much. He wants _something_ about her to be the same.

He sees the sunflower, and his breath hitches in his throat. It's really her, and he can't help but stare at her a little while longer.

After a moment, she glares at him, the corners of her mouth curving downward, and he realizes he's overstayed his welcome. Taking a step back (regretfully), he prepares to take the plunge.

He's really not sure what he hopes to accomplish. She walked away from him that night; why would she ever want to see him again? Scratch that – she deliberately said she never wanted to see him again. There was no room for misinterpretation in that steely voice of hers.

But he can't help but wonder if those were words borne of passion and anger, if she really didn't mean to say that she would forget him painlessly. He knows she's usually blunt and honest, but he's willing to bet – more like desperately trying to believe – that she was scared that night, and so she broke his heart to save herself.

It would have worked, too, if not for the fact that now she's standing right in front of him with the only visible exit halfway across the room. This is going to happen whether he orchestrates it or not.

So he smiles slightly, hoping he doesn't stun her too completely, and whispers, "Peyton. And I'm Lucas. But I suspect you already knew that."

She only nods dumbly, shock distorting her features.

_tbc_


	2. The Impossiblity of Separation

**A/N: Thank you _so much_ for all your wonderful reviews! I hope this is a fast enough update for you, and, hopefully (argh, too much hope going on!), this clears up some stuff, for those of you who were even the slightest bit confused. I apologize in advance for the angst in this chapter, but it's a necessary stepping stone to ultimate LP happy life together!**

**That said, thanks for reading! Enjoy :)

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Chapter 2

The Impossibility of Separation

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_"Who says there has to be a point? Or a reason. Maybe it's just something you have to do."  
- Along For The Ride by Sarah Dessen_

She reels backward slightly, pressing her hand over her heart in a vain attempt to calm herself. She can't believe it's really him. She thought, just for a moment, that maybe she knew him from somewhere, but she never considered that she _knew_ him. Knew him in that way that still keeps her up at night sometimes.

"Luke," she whispers, the word dropping off her tongue in a quick, uneasy drawl (he's missed that Southern twang of hers). "I don't…" She's not sure what she means to say. (She's never sure around him.)

He resists the urge to close his eyes and groan. Already, she sounds regretful. He wants her to _want_ to see him, because right now all he wants to do is bury his fingers in those magnificent curls of hers and make love to her (she's the only woman he has ever made love to). But that all depends on her reaction.

And she doesn't look too happy to see him.

"Don't say anything," he pleads, gently, seriously, and she takes a cautious step backward. He looks different, he smells different (less like summer, more like sex – although she's not sure if that's a bad thing); he even _sounds_ different.

And it scares her.

"I should go," she murmurs, surreptitiously glancing at the platinum watch hanging from her delicate, slim wrist (a detail he notes with surprising lust). "I have to –"

"No, you really don't," he interrupts, taking a step toward hers, encroaching on her personal space (not that she really minds). He wonders if she still tastes like he remembers: sweet and tangy, with an undercurrent of dark desperation. Maddening. Sickening. Enticing.

That's the only way he can describe his attraction to her, and he wants to make her _feel_ that again. "Come with me," he urges, and there's something like guilt in those ice-blue eyes of his, as if he regrets the last time they saw each other (it makes sense to her).

She glares at him, but the hard emerald of her eyes softens as his gaze pierces her very being. It sounds incredibly cheesy, but he's always been able to see right through her, and she's well aware that she's not doing a very good job pretending she doesn't want to see him. (She wants him, always wants him). Her blood is humming with anticipation (anticipation for him, anticipation for them, anticipation for _love_), and she knows she can't hide it.

So she doesn't try.

"Okay," she whispers, shrinking back a little. She's afraid of what this Scott boy does to her. But she also can't resist him.

He looks surprised at her easy acceptance, and he falters, just for a moment. She grins (she doesn't bother to hide it); she's always enjoyed shocking him. He recognizes that familiar devilish gleam in her eyes, and he almost wants to…smile. He's missed her.

He has to confess, though, that he hasn't thought about her much in those ten years since high school graduation (since the best fuck of his life, hands down). But really, he's just been avoiding the many, wonderful memories he has of her. Why, he doesn't even know. (If he still considered himself a writer, he would say he's blocking her out because it's too painful to remember what they had).

"This way," he murmurs, and she steps forward, in front of him, because she's always been the leader in their interactions. It doesn't matter how long it's been since they last spoke or how hard this right here is; she knows he'll always follow her.

She doesn't even know where she's going. He's the one with the brilliant idea of leaving this stupid (she could think of much more…colorful words to describe it, but she resists) party, and she's not really sure what he wants. But she knows she wants answers. (And she'll only get them by going where he goes).

So she holds her head high, moving fluidly in the direction he pointed with a casual flick of his wrist (a movement she knows she shouldn't be so affected by), and throws a quick, questioning glance over her shoulders. She knows he'll understand what she's saying – or gesturing, or whatever. This kind of wordless communication has always been their forte.

"Just to talk," he softly reassures her, narrowing the distance between them as she crosses the room. He wants so badly to just touch her, to reach out and rest his hand on the curve of her waist or trail his fingers down her spine or just…anything, really. He thinks he needs proof that she's real.

But the part of him that used to be a writer (still is, despite all his failed attempts at novels and total lack of inspiration) knows she's here, with him. She's not a dream, or a fantasy – although she's always fit the bill for that, too. He doesn't need substantial, concrete evidence. He knows what he sees. He believes in it. In _her_.

She doesn't even nod. He can't tell whether she's surprised at his intentions, but he supposes that's part of the fun. He thinks she's still as mysterious now as she was only a few minutes ago, when he had no idea who she was. She's _Peyton Sawyer_; she's an enigma. She always has been.

She pauses when she reaches the far side of the room, the graceful marble soaring high above her head, curving and trailing. She feels very small in the face of that stone, suddenly, and she almost hugs her arms to her chest, as if to protect herself. She's afraid of this moment, afraid of him. What's going to happen next?

She _really_ doesn't like having no fucking idea.

But she trusts him, even if it's been ten years since she last saw him, even if she can't define what they've become (or even what they were, back when they were _something_). She's always trusted him. So she lets him step back in front of her. She gets the sense he knows more about this place than she does. Call it an artist's instincts. (Who cares if that's not a real idea?)

He turns to face her, and she jumps back, startled by his proximity. He looks different. Scarier. His hair is dark, almost the color of Nathan's – she wonders fleetingly why he dyed it and touches a hand self-consciously to her own processed curls – and his eyes are colder, less alive. He looks like he's been having a hard time; there are dark shadows on those perfectly chiseled cheekbones of his, and the set of his mouth is grim. She wants to fix this, fix him.

She wonders when they got so off track. (Probably the moment he supposedly "forgot" to break up with Brooke before graduation).

"Lucas," she breathes, and it's a bit of a warning, a bit of a plea. He smiles, because this is the Peyton he remembers. Strong, but vulnerable. She doesn't want to show her weaknesses (and there are many), but he knows he's always made her feel slightly off-kilter.

So he takes advantage of her temporary uneasiness. He places his hands on the subtle curve of her hips, his fingers instinctively seeking that little dip in her skin he remembers so vividly, and spins her around so her back is to the wall. He takes a step toward her, daring, challenging, asking. She braces her hands on the smooth stone behind her, the panic in her eyes darting and skipping.

She doesn't want this. (Well, she does, but she wish she didn't). He's too much. Too powerful and too overwhelming and too…man. He turns her on so _fucking_ much, and she wants to run away.

But she can't. Those ice-blue eyes are smoldering with passion, lust, desire, whatever the hell it is he's feeling – she can't read him quite like she used to – and she can tell he plans to finish this. She doesn't know what he hopes to accomplish, but she desperately wants to find out.

That kind of morbid curiosity isn't healthy, though.

"Don't do this, Luke," she manages to grit out through clenched teeth. She thinks her tone is defiant, commanding, but he only smiles, and her knees weaken. She knows she's lost this battle.

Because her knees are shaking and sweat is breaking out on her brow and she's delirious with hot _desire_. She wants him to touch her, wants him to bring his mouth to the tender swell of her breasts, wants him to plunge a finger deep inside her, wants him to grind his hips against hers and growl her name…She hasn't felt like this in _so long_ (she tries not to remember that he was the last one to make her feel this way), and it's damn good.

"Oh, I'm doing it," he insists, taking another step toward her, forcing her to lean against the wall in a desperate attempt to hold some kind of ground. (She knows she won't succeed, but she has to try, if only to salvage her dignity).

He's close enough now that his legs are pressed against hers, and she closes her eyes. She's remembering too much too soon now. She's remembering the rain pounding on the windows as she took off her shirt, the slight shaft of moonlight casting him in an almost surreal shadow as he moved towards her, the catch in his voice when he whispered her name, as if he knew they had only so much time to do this, as if he knew this was their last chance.

As if he knew she loved him.

But it's all so different now, and she can't let herself forget that. No, she _won't_ let herself forget that. She's stronger than this, stronger than him. (At least, she thinks she is.) So she lets her eyelids flutter open – ignoring the fact that the light green of her eyes has darkened considerably – and glares at him, forcibly, with a note of contempt that shocks him.

He's relishing this moment, he really is. He's fucked dozens – he lost count after the strippers his friend ordered on his 21st birthday – of women, but only _this_ particular woman, one Peyton Sawyer of the flashing green eyes and shimmering legs, has ever made him feel this unhinged. Technically, he has the power right now, if her labored breath is any indication. But he knows he's losing control. Rapidly.

Her glare throws him off, but he doesn't relinquish his hold on her waist. He wants to make her feel what he's feeling. He realizes that she still feels some kind of loyalty to his and Brooke's relationship (which is ridiculous; they broke up more than a decade ago), and he also realizes that she's afraid of him. Why, he's not completely sure. But he resolves to make her see that he wants her back, has _always_ wanted her back.

So he only leans into her, his lips hovering dangerously nears hers, and presses his hips against hers. She lets out a strangled cry, her mouth opening in a perfect O (a shape he remembers only too well from that night they spent together), and he knows she feels the extent of his desire for her. He wants her, wants her, needs her. Always has and always will.

She doesn't bother pretending she's not incredibly, indescribably turned on. Come on, people. This is Lucas Scott we're talking about. He's practically a sex god (at least in her experience, and believe me, she's slept with a fair amount of men. And none of them even _come_ _close_ to the beauty that is Lucas Scott).

So she grinds her hips against his, giving him a taste of his own medicine (she's always had a dark side). She really doesn't care that they're in public, or that they're at a stuffy firm party. There's no one here she's even remotely concerned about embarrassing herself in front of, and he doesn't seem too bothered by this display of…well, affection isn't really the right word. Mutual desire and sexual frustration are probably more representative of this situation.

His jaw clenches – involuntarily, so quickly and unexpectedly that Peyton's heart bumps awkwardly in her chest – at her movement, and he drops his head, his gaze lingering on her legs. Of all the things he admires about Peyton Sawyer – her drive, her undeniable strength, her passion for art and music – her legs stand alone as his favorite part about her. He's a man; what do you expect?

And for a moment, as his eyes trace the sinew and bone moving beneath her skin as her feet shuffle nervously forward, he feels like a teenage boy. Images quickly leap through his hazy mind: staring up at her window, her form clearly outlined in the dark; watching her cheer, a smile blazing on her face; kissing her as she writhes beneath him. He can't believe he ever thought he was over her.

He makes a decision. He's sure she'll slap him for this, sure she'll call him all sorts of insults that aren't really suited for print. But he thinks it might be the only way to show her what he wants.

So he grabs her by the arm, being intentionally rough, his fingers clawing her soft, soft skin as he pulls her towards a door besides them. She doesn't like this treatment, he can tell – there's an indignant expression on her face, and her eyes are alive and angry – but then again, that's the reaction he wants. He wants to get her riled up. Sometimes she's cold, never revealing anything. But if he knows Peyton Sawyer – and he _knows_ Peyton Sawyer – there's a lot of unbridled passion boiling beneath the surface of her carefully cultivated façade.

And he intends to harness it.

"What the _fuck_ are you doing?" she cries, trying to wiggle out of his grip. She doesn't understand him, she really doesn't – one second he's enticing her with his body and those_ eyes_, the next he's pulling her somewhere, something like anger blossoming in his cheeks. She's done with his silly games. She just wants to go home.

But he doesn't look back at her. She considers calling rape – he looks scary enough with his awkwardly dark hair (although she sort of likes it…) and he's being rough enough for it to make sense. But no. She's curious, although she'd never admit it. So she shrugs – inwardly, mind you – and decides to just go with it. She trusts him.

Right?

He smiles when he notices she's stopped struggling. He's willing to bet she's decided to just see where he's going with this, and besides, he knows he'll make it worth her while.

Once they're inside the suspicious, hidden room, the door safely locked behind them – Peyton wonders how Lucas knows about this room, but she purposefully brushes off any lingering uncertainties – Lucas walks away from Peyton, leaving her standing in the center of the ornate red carpet. She looks up at the ceiling, just for something to do, and she's surprised to find Sicilian Chapel-type art adorning the panels. It's intricate and fascinating, and she gets so enthralled in the subtle patterns that she almost doesn't hear Lucas clear his throat.

"Peyt," he grunts, the nickname he alone uses surprising her, reminding her of sunlit mornings and stolen kisses. She looks at him, notices he's pacing, and smiles. (This is the Lucas she remembers).

"Yes?" she asks innocently, making her eyes wide and doe-like. She sways carefully from side to side, hands clasped, black dress fluttering gracefully around her ankles. She knows she looks quite angelic standing there, pale and transcendent. She also knows he can't resist her. (Hey, she never claimed to be modest!)

He groans. She'll be the death of him, he swears. He holds her gaze, blue meeting green, and it feels like a promise of sorts. He realizes suddenly that she left him that night because of Brooke. It had nothing to do with him, and the thought is one part gratifying and two parts frustrating. If only he had known…

He shakes his head, shakes himself free of doubt, of regret, of anything but his desire and…affection for the beautiful, mesmerizing woman before him. And he strides toward her and covers her mouth with his.

She recoils in shock, her every instinct willing her to pull away. For so long that's been her automatic reaction to anything concerning him: just run away. The mantra has saved her countless times, from when he tried to get in touch with her after college graduation to when Haley called just the other day and said she should talk to him. She's afraid of him, afraid of whatever happened between them (even now, she can't quite categorize that night). And so she runs.

But now…now, she doesn't want to let go of him. His arms have come around her, pulling her up against his taut, strong body, and he's kissing her passionately, vehemently, despite her, um…lack of reciprocation. He feels warm. He feels _safe_. She's missed that feeling. She's really missed it. She's missed _him_.

He doesn't have to know that, though. But she's willing to let him believe she cares.

Even if she doesn't. (She does, but she can't, won't, can't, let herself).

So she kisses him back, her lips responding eagerly to the probe of his tongue. She feels alive, electric with passion and long-suppressed longing. She's letting loose _ten years_ of regret – regret for leaving him, regret for never trying to fix things – and it's cathartic, cataclysmic. Akin to a hurricane destroying everything and leaving only the bare foundations, if you will. She feels like herself again.

Her hands somehow find their way around his neck, and she presses her finger to his pulse; she needs to make sure he's really here. It's been so long, and she's wanted this since that night, and it doesn't feel like it's finally happening.

But it is. Oh, it _is_! And fuck if it doesn't make her feel loved.

That's his way, she supposes. He makes people feel loved. He makes _her_ feel loved. He made Brooke feel loved, he made – wait, Brooke. Brooke had him first. Peyton slept with Lucas while he and Brooke were dating. She betrayed Brooke. She…she can't do this.

It's been ten years since it all came apart at the seams, and this right here should be okay. Peyton told Brooke about that night a few months after graduation, and it worked itself out (Brooke bitched and she screamed and Peyton took it all in stoic silence, and eventually, it was over). They both decided Lucas wasn't worth their friendship, and that was the end of that.

Sometimes Peyton wonders if Lucas was more than just a boy. And sometimes she wonders why she can't let go of _that boy_, the boy she slept with ten years ago.

And she never comes up with answers.

But now Brooke's face is swimming in Peyton's mind, her brown hair wavy and silky, her eyes warm, her cheeks dimpled. She looks beautiful, friendly, and suddenly hot guilt settles in Peyton's stomach. It's been ten years – ten _fucking_ years – but she still regrets that night. She can't do this.

She pulls away, regretfully (this night is just _full_ of regrets), because he's such a good kisser and she wishes it wasn't like this. "I'm sorry," she whispers, and she's ashamed to find her arms are still inexorably twined around his neck. She _is_ sorry, but that's irrelevant. All she can see are her mistakes (and there are so many of them that her vision blurs).

"Wait – what?" He shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. (Her heart aches in remembrance).

He's confused, and it's endearing. She removes her hands from the smooth, warm skin of his neck and strokes his cheek thoughtfully, as if she's memorizing every line and crevice of the face she had almost forgotten (and maybe she is). She thinks this might really be the last time she sees him. She'll make a point to end their…relationship – friendship, unresolved attraction, whatever it is. She won't talk to him or call him. She'll leave him alone.

The thought is saddening, but some things are more important than love. Like friendship. And sacrifice.

"What's wrong?" He doesn't understand what's happening, and his confusion makes him desperate. He thought this was going great – she seemed to be responding eagerly to his kiss, and he can't say he wasn't thoroughly enjoying himself – but now she's pulled away. And he has no idea why the hell she would do that.

"I just…" her voice trails off, and there's a catch in her voice, as if she's about to cry. (She thinks she might be). "I can't do this."

"Why the hell not?" His voice is cold, irritated, and she shrinks back. She understands his anger, of course – she's totally and completely led him on – but it doesn't make it any less frightening. She used to love this boy – man now, she supposes. What happened to them?

"I'm sorry," she repeats, sorrow flitting quickly over her face as she backs away from him slowly, as if it's painful (it is). "I didn't want it to end like this."

He wants to ask her what the hell she means by that, but she's already gone.

And it feels like the night of graduation all over again.

--

She practically _runs_ out of that god forsaken building, tears streaming down her face. She doesn't understand why she did what she just did. It seemed simple at the time – leave the only man you ever thought you could love because you slept with him while he was dating your best friend – but now, in the stark light of the New York skyline, she's questioning her decision.

She should give Lucas a chance, right?

She really has no idea, so she whips out her cellphone and dials the number of the one person she knows can handle this. (At least, she hopes that's the case).

The phone rings, and rings. Peyton worries that her go-to-confidante isn't home, and she frets, wringing her hands in despair. She _needs_ to talk about this.

The dial tone picks up. _Finally_.

"Brooke," Peyton whispers, her voice faltering. She's afraid of her best friend's (even after all these years, they still call regularly and go out to lunch a few times a week) reaction to the news that she saw Lucas. Actually, it's more the news that she _kissed_ Lucas that she's afraid of telling Brooke about.

But she summons her courage – what's left of it – and murmurs, "I saw Lucas. He's here. He's been here in New York all along." She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes. "And he…he kissed me."

There's silence on the other end of the line, and Peyton worries, worries. What if Brooke yells at her, disowns her? There are so many scenarios Peyton can think up…

But then: a slight huff of breath, a quick, inaudible curse, and:

"Oh my _fucking_ god."

_tbc_


	3. If Only We Were Happy

**A/N: I apologize **_**so much**_** for how long it took me to get this chapter to you. My only excuse is that this was my first week of school, and, consequently, I was extraordinarily busy. And then Document Uploader acted up and then…anyways. I will make every effort to get the next chapter to you by tomorrow night. Thank you for your patience!**

**Thank you again for your lovely reviews, and thank you for reading! Enjoy :)

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Chapter 3

If Only We Were Happy

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_And we know it's never simple, never easy  
- Breathe (feat. Colbie Cailat) by Taylor Swift_

Peyton gnaws at her fingers nervously, which is rare for her (she likes to keep her nails clean and pristine), waiting, wondering. She can't quite tell if Brooke's string of expletives and complete shock is a bad thing or a good thing.

Or that kind of gray area that Peyton has so much experience with.

The brunette fashion designer (Peyton is proud to be able to say her best friend has her own line) doesn't even pause for breath; she launches into a nonsensical jumble of protests and exclamations. Peyton has no idea what she's saying.

And that scares her.

"Brooke?" she asks tentatively, after a moment. Her voice is small, and she hugs herself tightly, securely. She's standing outside of that stupid skyscraper, waiting for a cab, the chilly November air biting her bare shoulders. She remembers she left her fur stole (yes, fur; don't ask) in the coat check at the party, but going back up there will mean potentially running into _him_. (And that's a risk she's not willing to take).

"Yes?" The other girl's voice is soft, as if she can tell that Peyton is falling apart (she probably can). "P. Sawyer –" Peyton's heart convulses pleasantly at the familiar nickname – "Are you okay?"

And suddenly, the former adulterer (it's a strong word, but Peyton is nothing if not self-deprecating) wants to cry. She doesn't understand why Brooke sounds so kind. If _she_ were in this situation – if Lucas had kissed _Brooke_ – Peyton would be furious. But Peyton figures that Brooke is just more gracious than she could ever be. And, thankfully, it's not a character trait she particularly envies.

It's mean to think that, she knows. But when it comes to Lucas, Peyton is single-minded to the point of recklessness, as Bridget would say. (Yes, Peyton reads _The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants_ books. Don't judge her; it's a guilty pleasure).

"I…don't know." She finally answers, somewhat truthfully. She feels confused, definitely, but there's also a sort of…satisfaction, too. Lucas wants her back, and that's really all that matters. (Right?)

But she can't let him have her. She _can't_, and that's because of the person she's talking to right now.

"What happened?" Brooke asks gently, and Peyton can almost feel the sympathy emanating from her best friend, even over thousands of miles of underground phone lines (Brooke is in Milan on business).

She's not sure how to answer that. Lucas suddenly, randomly, forcefully (and sexily, if she's honest) kissed her, yes, but she didn't push him away. She should have slapped him, she knows, should have yelled at him for assuming they would just pick up where they left off (not that she knows where that was anyway). But she didn't, and, somehow, she doesn't regret that. That kiss – cosmic, glorious, crashing lips and searching hands – was wonderful (more than wonderful), and she refuses to even _consider_ taking it back. But she doesn't know how to explain it to the only other person who might understand.

"Well, I was at a party," she begins, and it feels very familiar, the same old story. It's tiring, this constant cycle of partying and finding guys and sleeping with them and then seeing them at yet another party. With another girl. (A girl who's usually skinnier and taller and blonder). Peyton doesn't want Lucas to be just another conquest, but right now that's where he stands.

Peyton knows, though, that Lucas Eugene Scott (she resists the urge to laugh inwardly at his middle name) will never be just another conquest to her. He will always be, they will always _have_, more than that.

Brooke doesn't probe. She just waits, dutifully listening like the best friend she is. And Peyton loves her for that. (She doesn't deserve it).

So she tells the story, a story she almost wishes she couldn't tell. She wishes it all never happened, wishes she went to that party and got crazily drunk like she had planned, wishes she didn't discover that Lucas was here in New York looking _damn _hot and irresistible, as usual. But she did. She did, and now she has to deal with it.

She's still a teenage girl at heart (she thinks she always will be), and when teenage girls have boy problems, they call their best friends. So she reveals almost everything (she leaves out the details about how that kiss feels, because Brooke _really_ doesn't need to hear that), because she needs advice and she needs comfort. And Brooke's raspy, soothing voice is sure to provide that.

When Peyton is finished – still waiting for that elusive cab, still shivering, still guiltily hoping that Lucas will come out and find her – Brooke sighs. It's a heavy sound, and Peyton is suddenly suspicious.

"Go for it," Brooke rasps shortly, suddenly, and Peyton can almost hear the nonchalant shrug that accompanies the words.

Peyton lets out an involuntary gasp. She's not all that surprised – Brooke has always been impossibly selfless, almost to a fault – but she's a little…bewildered. All these new developments are still so _new_. Lucas here and Brooke giving her the okay…this is _not_ something she planned for.

"Wha-Whatt?" She stutters, almost choking on the word. She holds her cell phone closer to her ear, as if that will help her understand what's happening (Can you hear me now?).

"You heard me." The words are gruff, hard. Peyton wonders if Brooke is forcing herself to say all this. (Her heart clenches with long-suppressed guilt).

"You and Lucas…" Brooke's voice trails off, as if she doesn't quite know how to explain (she doesn't), and there's a note of pain lurking in those dulcet tones that surprises and gratifies Peyton. The blond hates herself again. It doesn't matter what Brooke says next; Peyton's not going to go after Lucas when her best friend so clearly still harbors feelings for that brooding Scott brother.

But she doesn't say anything. She wants Brooke to admit that she would mind - i.e. would cry and scream and be _really_ fucking pissed off - if Peyton made a move.

But Brooke is still Brooke – still completely oblivious to her own feelings, still pushing for her friends' happy ending while ignoring her own life – and so she only says softly, "You guys are a fairytale." She pauses, as if she's trying to summon the courage to speak again. "You deserve your happily ever after, Peyton." (Peyton knows that isn't true, but she appreciates it nonetheless).

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do," Peyton quietly admits, her voice shaking. She ignores Brooke's declarations that her best friend and her ex-boyfriend are meant to be together; it seems slightly convoluted to her. (By now, this love triangle is too tangled to navigate). "He probably never wants to see me again."

"Not true," Brooke blurts shortly, breezily, as if it's just a fact that can't be argued against. Peyton marvels at her composure. (She's a mess).

"I walked away from him," the blonde finally whines. She hates the way she sounds: pathetic and helpless.

But then again, Lucas has always reduced her to this lesser version of herself.

Brooke sighs again, even heavier this time, and a hint of impatience seeps into her voice. (Peyton doesn't blame her). "Go find him. Tell him you love him."

It sounds so suspiciously easy, and Peyton reflexively, instinctively protests, "But I don't know if –"

"You love him," Brooke affirms, the words hard and sure and definitive. The sentence hits Peyton hard, holding her to the ground with the same kind of power only Lucas himself wields. Brooke lets out a gruff sound and continues, "Don't try to pretend you haven't been waiting for him all this time."

Peyton's not completely convinced – it's been ten years, after all – but she knows better than to argue with Brooke. Brooke's abilities as a matchmaker are fine-tuned after more than a decade of practice, and besides, Peyton can tell that this conversation is straining her best friend. Brooke doesn't want to hear about Peyton's indecisiveness, about whether the blonde should go back to Lucas.

It's a choice the brunette will never have – finding Lucas, having Lucas, _loving_ Lucas – and Peyton falls silent. She shouldn't have called Brooke; this isn't fair to her. This is something she has to deal with on her own.

"You're right," she whispers, but it's more for Brooke's benefit than her own. (She's finally learning the finer points of friendship). "You're right."

"Of course I am!" Brooke snaps, and Peyton recoils on the other side of the line. She didn't mean to hurt the girl she's been giving pedicures to since she was in fourth grade. There's something like satisfaction in Brooke's voice, though, and Peyton wonders – not for the first time – if Brooke is as masochistic as she sounds. (She is).

"I'm sorry," Peyton whispers, clutching her phone to her ear, hiding herself from the rest of the world. She's not just apologizing for being blind to what she should do; she's apologizing for _everything_: for sleeping with Lucas in the first place, for putting Brooke through unnecessary agony by not getting together with him and just getting it over with. And she knows Brooke will understand that.

"S'fine," Brooke murmurs, and her voice is soft, forgiving. She understands.

There's a long silence, and Peyton knows the conversation is over. Maybe it always has been; it feels like they're just rehashing old problems.

"Thank you," she murmurs absentmindedly, sweeping her hair back with one quivering hand. She can hear Brooke's nod.

"Bye, B. Davis," the blonde whispers (somewhat sorrowfully), and there are tears leaking from her eyes. She doesn't know how it got this bad between them, all these things left unspoken, all these little arguments they never quite resolved. She wants to make it all better.

But she can't.

"Bye, P. Sawyer," Brooke mumbles, and Peyton can tell she's crying, too. She feels unreasonably, suddenly sad.

And then she realizes something (it's shocking, but everything about this day has been shocking): it really doesn't matter what Brooke says. They've been best friends since kindergarten, or even further back; they'll survive whatever obstacles Lucas throws their way. Peyton doesn't need Brooke's approval, because whether she tells Lucas she loves him (or whatever it is she does with him) or not, they'll get through it.

And despite Brooke's own misgivings, the brunette graciously – and somewhat amusedly, if Peyton read her right – gave permission.

The question is whether Peyton will do something with that permission.

--

It's eleven fifteen by the time she's safely in her apartment. It's early for her (usually she's out until two at least, getting drunk at random bars and making out with strangers), and she feels helpless. She doesn't know what to do with herself.

It's more like _who_ she wants to do something with. She wants to call Lucas, wants to explain to him all the reasons why it won't work between them, wants to yell at him for all sorts of things.

But she doesn't. (It takes a concentrated effort not to pick up the phone).

--

She lies awake that night, listening to a soulful, soaring Billy Holiday record. It's soothing, somehow, but also incredibly depressing. And she was already sad to begin with.

She's been thinking about her...encounter with Lucas tonight. Or rather, she's reliving it. The touch of his hands on her waist, the press of his tongue in her mouth, the lust in those probing eyes of his. He felt just like she remembered - remembers, she reminds herself; she hasn't forgotten what it feels like to kiss Lucas Scott. He felt like _home_.

She shakes her head vehemently, squeezing her eyes shut against the torrent of pain that threatens to undo her (she's not strong enough). She sighs heavily and gives up after a moment.

She glances over at the glaring, red numbers of her alarm clock. The time reads two'o'clock. She wonders what Lucas is doing right now, wonders if he's thinking of her the way she's thinking of him (i.e. with regret and desperation and desire). She wonders if he was happy to see her tonight, or if he wishes she had never made a reappearance in his life.

She wouldn't blame him if he never talked to her again. She walked away from him ten years ago (almost to the day, if she's been keeping track correctly), and she walked away from him tonight. He must be tired of the sight of her back (but he loves her ass, she reminds herself devilishly).

Unfortunately, though, she doesn't feel the same way. She could never be tired of him, no matter how hard she tried. He's entwined with every aspect of her life; she draws paintings that remind her of him (she drew a lone raven when she felt nostalgic one day), she listens to music she imagines he must like (she knows his tastes almost as well as her own), she wears clothes she knows he would appreciate. (There are traces of him everywhere).

She'll never forget him. It's actually impossible to imagine a life where Lucas Scott doesn't _matter_.

And she's afraid to push him away this time. This is her second chance, she guesses. This is God's – not that she even believes in the so-called "man upstairs" to begin with – way of ordering her to tell Lucas _everything_ she's ever held inside. All the feelings she's repressed, all the things she's never said.

All the reasons she left him.

She wants to tell him all this, of course, and she will (she realizes now that she will). But she also wants to make it clear that they can't do this. (It's not a decision she's come to easily, and she wants him to understand that). Not just because she's afraid of whatever it is that exists between them (she is, but she'll never admit it to him), but because of Brooke, and because of the lives they all live so separately now. They're not in high school anymore. They can't pretend everything will be all right.

They're adults now, and she somehow has to make him see that she has made an _adult_ decision. (She knows he won't, because she doesn't either).

So she sits up straight in bed, staring blankly at the wall, and swivels her head quickly to her bedside table. And without hesitation (she knows if she waits even a moment she'll chicken out), she picks up the phone.

And she dials the number she still knows by heart (he's moved from city to city like a nomad, but his cell number is always the same) and whispers breathlessly, "Will you do me a favor?"

She can hear him sigh, and she knows he's weighing the pros and cons of agreeing to do her a "favor" (he was always the logical one). She wonders if he's surprised she's calling him in the middle of the night. (She knows he isn't).

He lets out a weary sound and takes a deep breath.

"Yes."

--

She meets him at a tiny restaurant on the corner of 75th and Madison.

She frequents this particular French café – cliché artist hangout, she knows, she knows – a lot, sometimes for coffee, sometimes for a quiet lunch away from the chaos that she's never quite gotten used to. It's small and it's quaint, and the owners know her by name. It feels a little like Tree Hill. (She ignores the thought that that's exactly why she loves it so much).

The best part of the café, though, is that it's open all night.

He's standing by the entrance when her cab pulls up alongside the street, a thick gray peacoat wrapped around his broad shoulders. (She doesn't blame him; she's wearing a navy blue Burberry trench coat herself). She hesitates before opening the taxi door, but she manages to summon the courage – and idiocy, she thinks ruefully – to get out of the car and move towards him.

She has to do this. She's thought about it much more than she should, and she's made her decision. She can't go back on it.

But still, she approaches him with such unease that she sees him visibly falter, as if he doesn't know why he agreed to this so-called "meeting" (he would call it more of a booty call, considering it's just after two thirty in the morning).

But she's mostly nervous because he looks so damn beautiful standing there with his dark hair and his blue eyes and his confused squint, and she's suddenly afraid she won't be able to say everything she has to say. She has a clear purpose in mind here, but if he smiles at her _just once_, she might fucking fall for him (if she hasn't already).

And she just can't do that again.

She swallows her fear (swallows the tears and the pain), and draws up beside him, tucking her straightened hair behind her ears. (Lucas frowns; he already misses her curls). "Hello," she murmurs, curtly, formally. She doesn't meet his gaze, even though his eyes are sharp and inquisitive. (Or maybe _because_ his eyes are sharp and inquisitive).

"Hi," he mumbles casually, averting his gaze. He stares at her feet for a moment, because she's wearing these black opaque tights that highlight the curve of her legs and bright blue stilettos that he knows she picked on purpose. He can't take his eyes off her golden skin, and it takes some effort to choke out, "Shall we go inside?"

She nods, and he shakes his head as she steps in front of him. He hates how awkward this is. They loved each other once. Why is this so hard?

Maybe because they love each other still.

They step into the foyer, warm air hitting them like a wave of lust. And that's exactly what it is, because Peyton is suddenly incredibly aware of the touch of cologne Lucas is wearing, of the way his hair veers off his forehead with seeming precision, of the span of his shoulders. And Lucas is distracted by the flush of red that floods Peyton's cheeks as she moves toward a table and the way she arches her back as she quietly yawns.

She's so fucking _beautiful_, and he can't have her. He wonders what he did to deserve this cruel fate.

"We need to talk," she murmurs wearily, oblivious to his sudden, overwhelming desire. She sweeps her hair back with one hand, the texture smooth and foreign beneath her fingers. (She only straightened her hair because she didn't want to remind him – and herself – of the past, but now it doesn't feel right).

She's prepared for some sort of rebuttal to her blunt "suggestion"; if she knows Lucas, he won't take this sitting down. He'll argue that they should just move past the fighting and make out already. (She almost smiles at the thought).

But his normally vibrant blue eyes are somber and tired as he appraises her, and he doesn't try to protest. He's willing to hear what she has to say, even if it means listening to her rant and rave about all the reasons they shouldn't be together (he knows there's not a single one). He's learned from years of trying – and failing – to get close to her that with Peyton, there's no push or pull. You give, she takes.

He should be annoyed about that particular…character trait of hers, but, truthfully, he finds it endearing (he wonders if that's because he's in love with her and he doesn't know it).

So he forces a smile, to put her at ease (his life goal is to make her happy), and he simply nods. There's slight surprise in those green eyes of hers, but she hides it well.

She's always been good at hiding what she feels.

"Okay," he shrugs, the muscles in his back expanding and rippling (her mouth goes dry). His voice is light, easy, like it's no big deal (it is, it really is). He pulls out her chair at the table she picks like his mother taught him to (he misses her every day), and he waits for her to sit down before relieving his own sore feet. And then he waits for her to speak, like the gentleman he used to be before she took that away from him. (She took everything from him).

She looks hesitant; she opens her mouth, closes it, opens it. He smiles encouragingly, again, flashing teeth and dimples, and she relaxes slightly. This is Lucas, she reminds herself. Just Lucas.

But that's the problem, isn't it?

"I don't, I can't…" She trails off, stuttering, leaning her head on her hands in exasperation. She doesn't know how to start. She never expected to have this conversation – of all the scenarios she dreamed up where she and Lucas met again and fell madly in love, there were never any lingering uncertainties; they just _were_. She wishes she were eighteen again, poised on the brink of her future, open to love, open to life. Things were easier back then.

She realizes suddenly that she feels cold and jaded. (But she's not, she's really not). She knows, though, that she just has a bad case of what she and Brooke like to call the Scott-Brothers-Blues, which consist of moping around the house (or whatever building you're currently habituating) and eating excessive amounts of ice cream. It's a condition unique to every single girl in Tree Hill.

Except that Peyton has had it for ten years, and exclusively for the blond brother. (Does that even apply anymore?)

She takes a deep breath. She might as well get this over with. (She wonders, though, who came up with the idea that it's less painful that way). She murmurs softly, bowing her head in shame, "This is hard for me." (Acceptance is the first step to recovery).

And it _is_ hard, it's fucking _hard_, because as much as she once loved the man – he's a man now, she marvels – sitting across from her, he's changed, and so has she. Their love story (or lack thereof, she thinks somewhat morosely) may not have a place in their new lives, in New York City, where he's a lawyer and she's not even really an artist.

And maybe, just maybe, their love story doesn't have a happy ending.

The thought is unbearably sad, and suddenly, tears prick the back of her eyes. So she starts talking, because she has to stop herself from crying, because none of this makes sense. She has to get some closure here, even if it means lying to him, even if it means leaving him.

That's always been the difficulty with him, really; every time she thinks she's gotten over him (and there have been many, _many _times), he sweeps back into her life like some kind of Superman and breaks her heart all over again. (It's a vicious cycle she's not sure she's ready to escape).

She can't even really concentrate on what she's saying right now; his blue eyes are burning at her, through her, and all she wants to do is hold him close to her. She's missed him, she really has. She just wishes he had never gone out with Brooke.

It's an entirely selfish thought – he made Brooke happy for a long time – but Peyton can't control it. So she keeps on talking, to distract herself from all the mistakes they've made. (It started by that stupid lake and it ends right here).

He leans back in his chair and watches her as she speaks so fast he doesn't catch every word, a strange sensation in his heart swelling and expanding until it threatens to overwhelm him. He wonders what he's feeling, exactly; anger, sorrow confusion…love? He doesn't know, so he simply listens, hoping he'll figure out eventually. He watches her, and he waits.

He'll listen to her forever if that's what she needs.

_tbc_


	4. Wake At Dawn With A Winged Heart

**A/N: Okay, so I'm a **_**horrible**_** updater. I promised Monday night, but it's now Thursday night. I cannot even **_**begin**_** to apologize for that gross mistake, but here's the next chapter. It's outrageously long, but I think it will satisfy you guys. That's all I think I need to say :)**

**Thanks for reading and being patient with me! Enjoy :)

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Chapter 4

Wake At Dawn With A Winged Heart

* * *

_I love you.  
It's not even to make you love me.  
- Anonymous_

When Peyton is finished talking (and she's taken almost a half hour to explain everything), Lucas scoots forward in his chair, leaning towards her without preamble, and frowns slightly. He stares at her in utter, complete disbelief, his eyes widening as he blinks furiously, as if he's trying to decipher what she just said. She wonders what it means, wonders if he's confused or just angry.

She figures it's probably the latter.

The pair – of friends, of lovers, whatever; take your pick – is quiet for a moment, the only sound their gentle heave of breath. (Peyton finds herself distracted by the rhythmic rise and fall of Lucas' shoulders).

Finally – _finally_ – he dares to break the silence."So let me get this straight," he grunts, his voice hard and firm, the words unyielding even as he leans closer towards her. She flinches, the corners of her mouth pulling downward. (He's never like this with her). She realizes she's slightly afraid of whatever it is he's implying.

He takes a deep breath, the air leaving him quickly and violently, and continues, without a hint of regret or sympathy, "We can't see each other because it might hurt Brooke?"

Peyton nods dutifully, earnestly, because that's basically her argument right there. But she's a little suspicious of his words. His voice is blank, his eyes expressionless, and that [frankly] worries her. Lucas Scott is many things, but stoic is not one of them. (That's her forte). In fact, she'd be happier if he sounded angry or sad or something like that.

But he just sounds like he doesn't care.

And that's her biggest fear. Because no matter what he is to her, she doesn't want to be just a girl he slept with to him. She doesn't want to be nothing to him.

She wants to be _everything_.

But that's a double-sided coin, really; she can't win. She doesn't want to be with him – can't be with him, to be more precise – but she also wants him to still be in love with her. It's unfair for her to ask that of him, and she realizes that, acknowledges it fully. But she'll ask him anyway, because she's really a selfish bitch underneath it all. (She's an enigma wrapped in a puzzle wrapped in a _bitch_.)

So she only nods, hurrying to clarify. "Yes," she murmurs; now she's just confused. She _thought_ she made it clear why this _right here _wouldn't work, but maybe she was wrong, because there's clear bemusement in those opaque eyes of his. Maybe he doesn't understand her reasoning. Maybe she should try again.

"We can't do this because we could – " She begins again, waving her hands in the air as if that will help her illustrate her point.

But he shakes his head wearily, rubbing the back of his neck in that movement she remembers so vividly (so brightly it hurts). "Stop, Peyton. Just stop." The words are quiet, soft; he sounds tired, and suddenly, her heart aches. (He's always tugged at her heartstrings mercilessly).

"Okay." She lets the word leave her mouth, lets it drift in the stagnant air between them. She waits.

But his rebuttal doesn't come for a long moment. He just looks at her, looks at her like she always imagined he would, even after all this time. Looks at her like he's missed her, looks at her like the only thing he wants to do right now is kiss her. She sits up a little straighter, mentally preparing herself for whatever declaration of love he's about to make. (She can still read him somewhat). She wants it, of course, wants those flowery writer's words, but she also _needs_ to hear it. She needs to hear him say she still matters to him. (Screw Brooke for the moment).

But he only sighs, glaring at her with undisguised contempt in those already cold eyes of his, and he blurts out, "That's _bullshit_, Peyt."

She lets out a quick gasp of shock and anger, because honestly, she expected a romantic…_something_. She's taken aback by the raw cruelty in his words,and so she fires back without hesitating, without even thinking, really, "Don't you fucking _dare_."

She always was quick on her feet.

He reels backward – she doesn't often curse – and raises his hands as if in surrender or self-defense (she thinks it's the latter). This whole thing happened so fast, and he's not quite sure what he just said or what she said in reply. He didn't mean to be so harsh, but he's fucking _tired_ of her excuses. The only reason they quote on quote "can't do this" is because she's scared.

And he won't let her run from him because of their disastrous history. He just _won't let _her.

So he scoots his chair closer still to the table, taking her face in both his hands, feeling her warm skin beneath his fingertips. (It feels strangely intimate, and she almost pulls away. Almost). He laughs, a gentle, smooth chuckle that reverberates through her, and she frowns a little. She _really_ wishes he didn't have so much control over her.

But he does, and she might as well give up trying to fight it.

"Well then," he whispers, and his eyes are kind again, "Don't _you _assume I even want what you're giving reasons for us not to do." His voice is teasing, light, and he's not sure his convoluted rebuke even made sense. He wants to catch her off-guard, wants to take all her careful control and throw it back at her. He wants to make her rethink all her supposed "reasons" why they shouldn't do whatever it is she seems to think is inevitable.

But crippling panic flits quickly over her face, and she pulls away roughly. (It wasn't exactly the reaction he was hoping for). She stands up quickly, wrenching her face from his hands, kicking her chair behind her with undisguised distaste. Surprisingly, suddenly, she throws him a cursory glance over her shoulder, her eyes roaming his face curiously, languidly.

But she snaps out of her reminiscing – or whatever it is she's doing, he thinks amusedly – and tugs her purse onto her shoulders. "This was a waste of time," she mutters brusquely, and he almost smiles as he catches a glimpse of the girl who he could only describe as curls and venom.

Until he realizes that she's walking away from him right now, for the second time tonight, for the hundredth time in his life. She's _always_ fucking walking away.

"Don't." It's the only word he manages to grit out through clenched teeth.

She turns, faces him, dark blonde hair whispering picturesquely past her cheeks. (It's like something out of a movie). "Why the hell shouldn't I?" Her voice is defiant, but if he's reading her right (and he usually is), there's also an undercurrent of desperation, as if this is a last resort. She doesn't want to walk away from him (he gets the sense she never has), but she feels she has to.

He stands up, strides over to her, stands in front of her. He wants very much to kiss her, but he knows she'll only push him away and slap him. So he just looks at her for a moment, calming her with blue and yellow (the combination of colors she gravitates to when she's painting). And then he murmurs, softly, almost like he's coaxing her forward, towards him, "Because you don't want to."

"Not good enough," she blurts out, her eyes frantic and searching. She's begging for more, asking him for another reason why she should be more loyal to him than to Brooke, more receptive of these new developments, more willing to forget (or simply disregard) her – his, their, _our_ – past. Her desire just doesn't factor into this.

"Because _I_ don't want you to," he whispers, taking a step towards her, and now his warm, strong hands are resting on her hips. Entrancing her, enticing her. Intoxicating and intriguing her body (and her heart, always her heart) even as her brain registers all the reasons why this is _so wrong_.

She shakes her heads, mouths her dissent. She doesn't have the strength – or the voice, really – to verbally reply. (She thinks he'll get the point anyway).

He sighs heavily, as if she's being incredibly difficult (she is, she really is, but he finds it sort of cute, despite himself), and pulls her closer still. He whispers one final reason: "Because this is supposed to happen."

It's an endearing – if oblique – reference to their shared view that they are "meant to be" (whatever the hell that means), and Peyton resists the urge to smile. (She doesn't want to accept his reasoning, but she finds herself bending to his will involuntarily).

She shakes her head slowly, calmly, but there's just barely concealed panic in her emerald eyes. She _really_ wishes she had the strength to pull away.

He moves his hands up her sides, tickling her gently with the tips of his fingers as his warmth seeps into her. She shudders visibly, closing her eyes, as if to block out the image of him coming closer to her. But he doesn't stop narrowing the scarce distance between them. (He almost enjoys her discomfort).

He folds her into his arms so smoothly that her brain almost doesn't register the movement. She's not really surprised. (He was always deceptively suave).

He moves his mouth close to her ear, and she instinctively leans against him, her arms coming up to twine around his neck. For once, she doesn't resist the irresistible, almost…gravitational pull surrounding him. She's never been able to explain exactly why she can't let him go, and she won't try now.

She lets herself enjoy the feeling of his body pressed against hers, lets herself sink into his embrace and just _remember_. Remember why she fell in love with him in the first place. (There are many, many reasons, but the way she fits perfectly in his arms is in the Top 10).

She lets out a soft sigh she didn't even know she was holding in, and he chuckles again, his cheek rubbing hers, smooth and rough commingling (opposites attract, right?). She doesn't even begrudge him his amusement; it's been so long since he last held her like this, and she just wants to _be _with him. In every sense of the word.

She sees Brooke's face in her mind again, but this time the brunette just nods benevolently. Peyton smiles, burying her face in Lucas' chest. This is going to happen, and she's not going to stop it. (She doesn't have to, doesn't want to, _can't_).

His lips graze the shell of her ear, and she shivers lightly, a pleasant vibration that courses through her body like his voice when he reads aloud (she's never forgotten the sound).

He takes a deep breath, the warm air enveloping her, lulling her into a sense of security she knows isn't false (with him it never is). She leans her weight against him, the furrows in her forehead slowly fading until she feels completely calm and relaxed.

And then.

"Sleep with me."

It's a coarse, harsh, sudden whisper, and she flinches. Honestly, she's completely, utterly, annoyingly _surprised_. She was convinced this reunion – or whatever the hell it is – was about "love" for him, not sex. She's angry that she fell for this trap. She should have known better.

All her carefully thought out, scrupulously outlined reasons why she shouldn't be here, why they shouldn't be doing this, come rushing back to her, and she shakes her head. She's an idiot.

Why the _hell_ did she fall for his crap again?

But she doesn't pull away from him, not yet. His words have sent a shock through her, and suddenly, her groin is throbbing painfully. She wants him – has always wanted him, since the moment he defeated Nathan on that goddamned Rivercourt – and her body acknowledges that, even if her heart/brain (probably just her brain) stubbornly defies her own desire.

She's curious, of course; she wants to know his intentions, wants to know if he really means what he's saying. (She thinks so. He's a writer; honesty is part of his DNA). So she curls her body into his – she hears him stifle a groan, and she can't resist grinning – and murmurs somewhat indignantly, "What?"

He lets out another laugh, and she smiles yet again, because she loves to see him happy. Always has, always will.

She waits patiently for the answer she knows will come – he is nothing if not predictable.

But he doesn't explain himself, not really. Doesn't even clarify. "Just once," he murmurs, and her breath catches in her throat, "That's what I want."

What _she_ wants is to ask him why the hell it's always about _him_, why every time she wants to be with him he has some stupid moral obligation telling him not to, why he gets to decide when they do whatever it is they do. She's tired of waiting for him, tired of being the patient best friend who watches as the love of her life – she knew every back then – kisses a girl who isn't and _can't_ be her.

She's just _really fucking_ tired.

So she tries to step backward, away from him. Because if she doesn't escape now, she'll never recover. But his arms hold her close to him, and she grudgingly – she's somewhat of a masochist; she likes it – lets him keep her in chains.

But she won't let him get off that easy. She forces a single, angry word out of her mouth, the typically venomous retort muffled by the rough fabric of his coat.

"Why?"

He shakes his head, as if he can't give her a concise, concrete answer (he can't). The movement confuses her; what is he trying to say?

The problem is, he doesn't know either. It's not just lust driving him forward (although he wants to feel her come-fuck-me legs and those swirling waves), not anymore. It's something far more potent, far more reminiscent of the sweet first love he felt for her once upon a time.

Although this isn't a fairytale anymore. If it ever was.

He pulls away from her a little, letting his hands slide down to the easy curve of her hips. He keeps his fingers tucked into her sides, as if he's trying to hold her right where she is. But he knows from experience (he knows her better than anyone) that no one – not even him, him of the _darkdarkdark_ hair and the _blueblueblue_ eyes – can make her do something she doesn't want to do.

But it doesn't mean he won't try. He'll always try with Peyton Sawyer, because when he was 16 he promised Haley he was going to marry _that blonde angel_ one day. And he keeps his promises.

But _that blonde angel_ (looking more like a devil right now) stares at him defiantly, moving her hands from his neck and crossing her arms. Her chin jutting out, she smirks at him, as if she's daring him to make this happen. (She knows he won't).

But he surprises her, and that in it of itself is astonishing (god, what irony). He shakes his head again, vehemently, closing his eyes, and grits out through clenched teeth, "It's not over for me, Peyt." It's more than a whisper, less than a murmur, and his eyes are blazing with something very much like lust (it _is_ lust). He takes a deep breath, calming himself. "It never could be."

She shudders, partly from his words (harsh and thick and, somehow, music to her well-tuned ears), and partly from the images she can't push away. She sees dark light filtering through paned windows as he moved above her and inside her (always inside her); swift glances across the courtyard, _I'm sorry_ and _we can't do this_ and _I hope you're happy, even if you're not with_ _me_; sorrow flitting through his eyes as she walked – no, ran – away from him that night.

She's just so _sorry_. For all of it.

And she wants to fix this. God, she wants to _fix_ this.

So she only nods, bowing her head, looking up at him through a honeyed fringe of eyelashes, and whispers, "Okay."

He looks shocked (rightly so), and he stutters frantically, thinking he probably misheard her (it wouldn't be the first time he hoped she said something she didn't say), "Okay?"

She nods again, and this time she laughs gently, reaching up to stroke his cheek. Her hands move across his skin thoughtfully, as if she's trying to relearn every pattern and crevice of his face (she is). He leans instinctively into her touch, closing his eyes as the warmth of her fingertips glides over his five-o-clock shadow, and she smiles. She's missed this easy back-and-forth. She really has.

He opens his eyes, the ice blue alive with hope and longing, and asks hopefully, "So the answer's yes?"

She shrugs, and a note of light teasing flits through her [surprisingly] soft green eyes. She takes a step closer to him, reaching up on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear, a laugh tumbling out of her mouth, "Of course."

He smiles and kisses her, because she's perfect and she's beautiful and he feels like writing a book about how much he loves her. He will one day, he knows he will (it's a promise he'll make to her).

But for right now, he just holds her close to him.

He's missed her.

--

They stumble through the doorway of his apartment (his was closer, he argued, but really he was just being a gentleman) like lovesick teenagers, pawing at each other and taking heavy, panting breaths. This meeting is already frantic, a frenzy of passion and long-suppressed fervor.

They each wonder – subconsciously, alone and guiltily – how long it will last.

But as they pull apart for breath, as Lucas slams the door shut behind them and Peyton begins toying with the buttons of his dress shirt, as if she's asking him if this is what he _really wants_, he tilts her chin up with one finger, forcing her to look at him.

His expression is calm and serious, and Peyton suddenly feels very vulnerable. She wants this to happen – _needs _it to happen, she thinks – but she's also afraid of it happening. She's worried that it won't be like she remembers, that he'll be different, that if this goes badly they'll never have another chance to make it work. She's worried that this will change them.

But he presses his lips softly, gently to hers, a lingering kiss that instantly soothes her, and he murmurs, low and sincere, against her parted lips, "This isn't just this to me."

She knows what he means. (She always knows).

"I know," she whispers, nodding quickly and certainly. It could never be _just sex _between them, and he doesn't have to acknowledge that. But she's glad he did. It makes the moment seem more authentic, less like betrayal.

But contrary to popular belief, she's _not_ thinking about Brooke right now. Brooke gave her permission to do this, and besides, this is what she wants.

And she's tired of sacrificing what she wants for someone else.

So she clasps her hands around his neck, shoots him a coy side smile (it reminds him of that first smile only a few hours ago), and murmurs, dark and slow, "Make love to me, Lucas Scott."

His eyes widen in shock, but he only nods.

Making love is a relative term compared to the firestorm that's about to be unleashed

--

Their (or rather, her) moment of hesitation comes when he's lying naked on top of her, his lips moving sensually and languidly with hers. He's not taking it fast, and she appreciates that. She needs to take a moment to process this. She's beneath him, his hardness pressing against the bare skin of her thigh, and she opens her legs to meet him, because he's beautiful and strong and this is supposed to happen and oh my god…

_Is _this supposed to happen? God, she doesn't fucking _know_!

"Wait," she murmurs urgently, panic setting in as a bead of sweat rolls off her forehead. She feels suddenly self-conscious as he tears his lips from hers and props himself up on his elbows to look at her quizzically, that familiar lovable squint forming between his eyebrows. She's naked too, of course, and she resists the urge – it takes a lot of effort – to cross her arms protectively over her chest.

He brushes her dark curls off her forehead gently, so lovingly that her breath hitches in her throat (she closes her eyes against the throb of affection that overcomes her). "What's wrong, Peyt?"

The words are soft, unassuming, and suddenly she wants to cry. He has been so nice to her tonight, despite her rambling excuses why they shouldn't be together, despite her initial uncertainty, despite her fragile emotional state (that last one is threatening to end this night prematurely). She doesn't know why he's being so kind; she doesn't deserve it. (She never has).

"I just…" Her voice trails off; she doesn't know how to explain why she's hesitating right now.

She doesn't open her eyes.

He sighs, but he's not angry, not really. (He understands her better than she understands herself). "It's all right, darling." The endearment rolls off his tongue quickly, certainly, so naturally that he doesn't even think about whether he should retract it. But he curses himself as soon as the words leave his mouth, because her eyelids flutter open, and her eyes are a vivid green that he can only attribute to fear. He resists the urge to groan.

God, he's _losing_ her.

He struggles to get her back, because sometimes (like right now) he's convinced that she's his life purpose. (She is, she really is). "We don't have to do this," he reassures her. (They do, he knows they do, but she needs to hear that there's another option).

She nods, her head bobbing frantically, but he can't tell if she's agreeing with him (she doesn't know either). She lets out a huff of breath and squeezes her eyes shut tighter still as one tear trembles and falls. She doesn't know what she's feeling right now. "I'm sorry," she murmurs softly, her voice catching.

Those are the only words that will ever mean anything. And it's _still _not enough.

She's breaking already.

He shakes his head in exasperation, stroking her cheek. A touch of such…_understanding_ floats into that eternal blue, but she can't see it, because she's afraid to open her eyes. Afraid of what she'll see in his expression. So he only asks her, wonder seeping into his voice, "God, you don't understand, do you?"

She opens her eyes in question, searching his face for _something_ that will give his meaning away. But he's only looking at her with adoration and caring and tenderness and…oh god, _love_.

And honestly, it's kind of frightening.

She shakes her head, and he leans towards her, forcing her to hold his gaze. He laughs, a disbelieving, almost ironic laugh that confuses her. What the _hell_ is going on with him? (One minute they were making out and the next he wasn't making any sense).

"God, Peyton," he grunts, and she frowns, because he sounds frustrated.

But no. He's _not_ frustrated. He's…having an epiphany.

"God, Peyton," he repeats, and now she's just confused. What is he trying to say?

There's a pause, a beat of silence, as he stares at her and understanding dawns on her face. She thinks she knows what he's going to say next, and a single tear rolls down her cheek. He smiles in answer, another laugh breaking the silence, and closes his eyes, because he's afraid he might cry.

"I _love_ you."

She lets out a harsh laugh, surprise crippling her. But then there are tears of joy and happiness and, what the hell, _love_,in her eyes, and she smiles and kisses him and just shakes her head for a moment.

She can't say the answering words yet (he's always been the first to admit his feelings), but she brings his hand to her heart, letting him feel just how much she _cares_ about him. He smiles at her, as always. (He loves her).

And when he enters her, there's no confusion, no lingering uncertainties.

They just _are_.

--

He rolls off her (regretfully and unfortunately, if he's being honest) at last, because he's exhausted, and he feels like dead weight. He doesn't want to crush her.

She lets out a small, mewling sound the very moment the heat of his body leaves her, and she moans, "Luke." The sound is all too familiar, both to him and her, and she smiles as the word slips off her tongue. She feels indescribably, incandescently _happy_, and she can't control the girlish giggle that escapes her.

He chuckles (it's so unlike her), and she resists the urge to tell him how glad she is they ended up here after all these years. (It's too early and too much has happened).

But he reaches out one arm to her and sighs contentedly, murmuring, "C'mere." She smiles obligingly and curls herself into the crook of his arm, burying her head in his warm, smooth skin. He laughs, a deep, rumbling laugh that sends shivers down her spine, and she resists the urge to squeal. (She almost doesn't succeed, mostly because she's tired of resisting urges when it comes to him).

This, this right here…_this_ is why Lucas is the standard she holds all men to. He holds her after they have sex, he smiles when she's being cute, he lies in bed with her and just sleeps. Which is exactly what he's doing right now; he's already fallen asleep.

He's the perfect guy, really. It just took her ten years to realize that.

So she lies awake next to him for a long while, just listening to the sound of his steady breathing. (It's inherently comforting). For the time being, she refuses to let herself think about what may or not happen (and what has already happened) between them.

Because she can smell that light touch of summer clinging to his tan neck, and she can feel his strong heartbeat as she lays her chin softly, gently on his chest. Because she realizes that she missed him all these years, that he is, has always been, and always will be important to her. Because her lips curl upward involuntarily the moment her face comes into contact with the defined planes of his chest, because heat floods her cheeks when she remembers the way she writhed beneath him.

Because she loves him. (She does, she really does). She can't say it yet, but she'll be able to soon.

She can feel it.

She's never met a man like him before (caring and strong and so fucking _sexy_), and suddenly, with unnerving clarity, she realizes that she'll never want anyone but him.

But she doesn't wake him up to tell him that (even though it feels like an epiphany). They've just come down from a euphoric high; they need time to digest these newest developments. Besides, it's a realization she knows she won't forget. She can wait. She _will_ wait.

He's worth it.

The sun begins to rise, hazy orange and purple flooding the horizon, almost painful in its beauty, and the fragile light seeps into the bedroom. She stares at the ceiling and breathes in the smell that she hasn't forgotten (and never will): the smell of mint and citrus and _hope_. Above all else, hope.

It's just after five thirty when her eyelids slowly slide closed. A lazy smile drifts over her face, becauseas she finally succumbs to sleep, she can hear rain pattering on the windows. She's not surprised.

It was raining the last time they made love.

_tbc_


End file.
